Strange little girl
New Age.
She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.
She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.
She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.
She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here.
Strange.
Whenever it rains you will think of her.
Time.
She is not waiting. Not quite. It is more that the years mean nothing to her any more, that the dreams and the street cannot touch her. She remains at the edges of time, implaceable, unhurt, beyond, and one day you will see her and after that, the dark.
It is not a reaping.
Instead, she will pluck you, gently, like a feather, or a flower for her hair.
Happiness.
Nobody will ever hurt her. She'll just smile her faint vague wonderful smile and walk away.
(Auszüge aus Neil Gaimans "Strange little girls")
